All My Colors
by DarkBlaze14
Summary: Life is like a painting. In the end, the only way to determine how well you did with it is by how much is left on your pallet.
1. Chapter 1 -- The Simple Life

**Hello guys and gals! Dark here... Welcome to my newest fic!:) I wanted to try something a little different... Like, a romance without all the action and fighting and stuff...:3 I think this'll be fun!**

**Also, I think I'm making a HUGE mistake publishing this... I'll try to balance four fics at once, I guess... Originally, this was not going to be posted until later (a LOT later), but I've been really, really, really bored the past week or so from writer's block and general ineptitude on my other fics. I also soon found myself working on a second chapter for this, so I figured I might as well post it now simply for entertainment purposes.:T**

**More than anything, this is really going to be personal for me... I'm going to base most of the writing off of personal experiences and my own beliefs. This is also going to be very much A/U, just as a warning. In fact, I'm gonna' be using real-life settings, so yeah.:p**

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Silver, Blaze, or any characters mentioned along the way. They all belong to SEGA!**

**Enjoy!:D**

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**All My Colors**

**Chapter I - The Simple Life**

Hello, reader! My name is Silver. Silver The Hedgehog. I'm just a simple guy, with a simple life in a not-so-simple city. I live in a medium-sized apartment in the heart of said city, with one bedroom, one bathroom, living area, a kitchen, and a smaller room next to the bedroom. It is in that room, the art room, where all my fantasies become reality.

I've been painting for the better half of my twenty-five year life. It's just what I do, I guess. It can be frustrating at times, but I love it to no end. It's always a challenge, that's for sure! I think my admiration of art can be traced back to my childhood, if you will.

It had been a harsh year in 2009. I was only about seven years old when Pops, my eccentric grandfather, died of lung cancer. Many times he joked that it was never the smoke from the cigarettes that was killing him, it was that smoke that came from people's ears when they got mad. And everyone was angry. You could turn on the news channel and there would be some guy in a suit at a desk ranting on about some controversial murder case or about the war overseas, becoming redder in the face by the second. Grandma had died earlier that year, and some were mad at others within the family because they didn't help take care of her enough. And Pops hated it all. He just wanted everyone to get along. Not just the family... He wanted no fighting on the streets, no heated arguments about who would win the Super Bowl next year, no war. Was that so much to ask? That's why I admired him, even at such a young age. We were very close.

In his will, Pops left to me whatever was in his old Army chest at the foot of his bed. Being who he was, he also added that we'd have to find the key; he'd hidden it and "didn't have a damn clue" where it was. That was, of course, a joke, because when we found it in his armoire in a box of Clue: Classic Detective Game, there was a note attached to it that read: "Clever, huh?".

With that key, we unlocked the chest, and found nothing but an old Polaroid camera. You know, that kind that immediately spat out the photo and you had to shake it so it would become clear? And with it, another note: "You don't have to know what to do with this yet, Silver. You just gotta' take that first picture. -Pops". So, that's what I did. I went outside, and took a picture of snow falling rapidly, sticking to the grass in the yard. I didn't know it at the time, but I had just taken the first few steps of what would be the rest of my life.

That following summer, I took that camera outside almost every day. I used to find animals, everything from insects to stray dogs to, one time, a small bear cub (which didn't particularly please my mother), and take photos of them. Every afternoon, I'd line up the pictures on my small desk in my room and look at them for a while. I always made up little stories to go along with each one, like how that dog got a scar across his face or why that rabbit's tail looked more poofy than the other rabbits'. Or where exactly that ant is headed off to. The stories would always be elaborate and, at least in my young mind, possibilities. Squirrels could _totally_ pilot jets. After I was finished, I'd put them in my drawer, and get a new batch the next day. A lot of that translates to what I am today. Pictures, to me, tell stories in a way words can't. A broader way... A _better_ way.

I did that for some time. When I was fifteen, and taking art classes in high school, I became extremely interested in what I was learning. So interested, that I had Mom buy me several acrylic and watercolor paint sets to use at home. I opened the drawer on my desk, took out the hundreds of photographs from years ago, and painted what I saw. I became good quickly. My teacher noticed, and placed many of my creations in shows around the county. Many people liked my work... I even won a few ribbons. And thus, my love of painting was born.

Many days now, I'll go into the art room sometime in the morning and come out only for food and bathroom breaks until I go to sleep that night. I always sit on my stool, looking at the plain tan square sitting on the wooden easel until inspiration strikes. I treat my blank canvas like a blank sheet of notebook paper, the most primitive form of a published novel. Paintings are a lot like books in some aspects. They can make you feel edgy, or happy, or make you laugh. It all depends on what the story's about, and how well it's written. In that sense, I'm nothing but a writer. I still make up those little tales, though... But now they're about my paintings.

I particularly remember one that I did, of an old, beaten-up, taped-up Gibson acoustic guitar, with untrimmed string ends curling up at the tuning knobs and one too many holes in the body, laying in a field of bold green grass. It belonged to a musician, not necessarily an ultra-famous rock star, but nonetheless a traveling musician, who kept that guitar ever since he had started out, and refused to get a new one. His guitar was simple, not flashy like the modern ones. It was his friend. He paid seven hundred dollars for it back in '66, and that's all he ever needed. His music made people smile and dance and sing... And the guitar loved him back. I titled the piece "_The Workhorse_" and I believe it was auctioned off at a local art hub for about four hundred dollars. The story, however, stayed with me.

Painting still astounds me. It's crazy how yellow and red can make orange, or red and blue make purple... Like two already powerful armies combining to make one dominant force...

"_Hey, wake up, Picasso..._" I hear a voice say, not really in a 'good morning' kind of tone.

My eyes barely open to see a lavender cat throw a pile of dirty socks in my face. She speaks again, irritated. "Would you _please_ stop leaving these lying around all over the place?! I'm _sick and tired_ of cleaning up after you!"

That's Blaze. She actually _is_ a writer, my roommate, and above all my friend. Don't let recent events fool you, she's just been really stressed out lately... And by _lately,_ I mean ever since she got a job with the newspaper as a journalist... So a good two to three years now. But her and I go way back; we were those two kids whose parents were friends and had children at the same time, so naturally we were best friends.

I yawn, rub my eyes, and sit up on the couch (yes, that's where I sleep!). I make my way to the kitchen, where the smell of coffee and eggs immediately penetrates my nostrils. Blaze was just finishing her last piece of toast before heading off to work. I sit down at my already-made plate, and managed to lazily say "Thank you, Blaze". Obviously, she wasn't in the talking mood, as she drank the last of her dark brown beverage and left for work without a you're-welcome or a goodbye. She's always rushing around like this...

I finish the last of my breakfast, and sit back in my chair, groaning and stretching. Man, I hate mornings... Could be worse, I guess. I could have an _actual_ job. The last zing of orange juice enters my mouth, because Blaze knows I don't drink coffee, and my eyes wander to that special room across the apartment. I smile, and slowly migrate towards it, like a momentarily lost child would finding his mother in a store while she's looking at shoes, her back to him.

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**And that'll be all for chapter uno!X3 Hope ya' liked! By all means, leave a review or shoot me a PM telling me what you think!**

**Thanks for reading! Love you all!**


	2. Chapter 2 -- Inside Looking Out

**All My Colors**

**Chapter II - Inside Looking Out**

The art room is really nothing special at first glance. It seems almost empty: just a desk in the back left corner, an armoire to the immediate right of the doorway, and my easel and stool in the middle of the room. The walls are painted a deep blue and various colors of acrylics splatter it near the molding as well as the hardwood floor. I take pride in those splatters... They don't soil the room... They enhance it. On the right wall, a large painting hangs of snowfall in a typical front yard, with my signature in the bottom right-hand corner. I think of this emptiness as just room for my creativity to flow.

I walk in front of the armoire, and throw the loose socks that were recently hurled at me in the bottom drawer. I take out a t-shirt and shorts, change out of my pajamas, and sit on the dark brown stool as I begin my day. When I finally get an idea for something to paint, I tell myself, I'll go outside. Grab a bite to eat somewhere. Catch a movie. But that'll never happen. I get too carried away in my work for that to be possible. After fifteen minutes or so, I pull my stool over to the window, and lean my head up against the wall. I like to stare into the outside world every now-and-then. Maybe I just like to look down on people. I don't know. It's kind of a game, really... Wondering where everyone is in such a hurry to get to. Why they won't just slow down and take a breath. But New York is a busy place, with busy people and busy streets. It's gotten worse as the word 'modern' has became the replacement for 'futuristic'. I guess that's why nobody can take their foot off the throttle nowadays. I look down on the hundreds of people on iPhones walking along the sidewalks, and the seemingly infinite number of yellow taxis that flood the roads. Maybe I'm the last kid that still believes all of this isn't necessary. Hell, maybe it _is_.

I would hate to be Blaze right now... Trapped in a cubicle; not able to think freely outside of your assignment. The building she works in is right across the street; sometimes I see her in the window, and she's never smiling. Then again, when _is_ she? Still, I get the feeling that inside there, it's not Hell... But you can see it from there.

I think of Pops a lot when I look outside. I wonder what he'd think of all this. He always said that, one day, when I was older, we would take a summer off, get in the car, and just go north. He always wondered what it was like up here. How people acted and talked; how they functioned. It seems silly to think of it like that; like you're traveling to a distant planet... But, honestly, where I come from, you might as well be arriving by spaceship. Life is a lot different in the Big Apple when compared to Spartanburg, South Carolina. Pops lived in Greenville, which is a noticeably more populated city, but still a village compared to New York. Up here, you don't know the names of all your neighbors. You can't stop on the side of the road to help someone out with car troubles and suddenly realize he or she is your best friend from high school. It doesn't work that way in The Empire City. It's not a small world. It's a galaxy packed into four hundred and sixty-eight square miles.

I wonder what Pops would think of me... Of what I've become. I'll admit it; I'm a sinner. There are a lot of things that I've done before that I'm not proud of, most of which I'm too embarrassed to talk about anyways, which only gives me more of a reason to keep those thoughts in the dark depths of oblivion where they belong. However, Pops's only wish was for everyone to be happy; and I'm happier now than I've ever been in my whole life. Given that, I take it he's proud to call me his grandson, wherever he might be.

Finally, I sigh, seeing that if original material may ever enter my brain again, it won't be this morning. I walk through the living room into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of tea.

I open the door to the common room, which is about the size of the living room. Really, it's nothing more than an entertainment room, complete with an air hockey table, pool table, and television. To the left, two glass doors lead out to a small balcony. I find two hedgehogs: one ebony with red stripes on his quills playing air hockey with a solid cobalt one. These two would be Shadow and Sonic (in order), two of my better friends. Sonic lives across the hall with his best bud, Tails, while Shadow and his girlfriend Rouge share this room with us.

It's kinda' weird how it all came together... Blaze and I moved up here from the south because she wanted to take journalism classes in Queens, while Sonic came here on an athletic scholarship from Pennsylvania and brought Tails and Shadow along for the ride. Rouge is a New York City native. I became friends with all of them my freshman year at Syracuse University, so naturally Blaze was kept in the loop. Needless to say, we all got pretty lucky finding this apartment complex when it was just opened... And here we are. But, enough of the past...

"'Sup, Silver?" Sonic says.

I shrug, "Same old everything." I take a seat, and sigh. "Blaze went off on me again..."

The ebony one scratches his head, "Better to just go with it. You know, her mom was just put back in the hospital a few days ago..."

"She didn't tell me. More chemotherapy?"

His expression softens, "I'm not so sure, Silver... They said it's not looking good..."

Oh, yes, reader... I forgot to mention that Blaze's mother, Miss Kay, has breast cancer, something that's right up there with her job on the stress-o-meter. She had been clean of it for some time now, but it came back about a year ago. I guess a whole lot stronger. That's _really_ not good. That's the last bit of family Blaze has got left. When we moved up here several years ago, Miss Kay came with us, and she helped us out a lot financially. Back then, she was perfectly fine... But now it's different.

I don't know if it makes a difference or not, but every night, in the darkness, I get on my knees and pray for them. I pray that Miss Kay will be healthy again and that Blaze would stop worrying about everything, that she could finally get some sleep. At any point in the nighttime, I can wake up for whatever reason, and hear her rustling in her bed. There's no telling what's going on in her head at those times.

Unfortunately, I'm not too sure either are possible. I never pray for myself, as I feel that I don't deserve to be prayed for. Besides, I care for Blaze far too much...

Yes. It's true. I'm in love with her. Have been for a while. I'm not sure what it is... Her personality... The way she acts in certain situations... Her face itself... I just love everything about her. That's why I'm so down when she's angry at me: I only want to please her. I've never told anyone that... I know she doesn't feel the same way, and if word got around, it would make for a _very_ awkward conversation.

I think about _us_ a lot. What we'd be like together; the things we'd do. I'd also be lying if I said I had never thought about her in... _That_ way before... Oh, I'm just a pervert. No wonder she hates me... Is this normal? Do others think about things like this like I do? I don't know why I'm so inclined to fantasize about love. I guess it just makes me happy, for whatever reason. As the late Andy Warhol once said: the most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet.

And that's just what this is. These particular opposites shall never meet outside of my imagination.

"Care for a game of _billiards_?" I hear Sonic say, in a playful tone. He leans back against the table, "Ow!" He yells, winces, and grabs his elbow. "Hit my funny bone... Why the hell is it called that?"

I laugh, "Should be called the 'God almighty' bone." I lift my cold beverage to my lips. "Rack 'em up."

The '_bang!_' of Shadow's first shot echoes against the walls, almost making me flinch. Now it is my turn. I walk around the table a few times, trying to pick the best shot. I notice a small gap, take a few moments to line up a shot, and barely miss the corner pocket. That gives a fairly easy shot to Sonic, who banks in the yellow 'one' ball with a behind-the-back shot. That's a lot like how we live our everyday lives, when ya' think about it. Some take it slow and consider their next move, while others just go for it, whatever the case may be. A reward can never be expected from either tactic.

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**And that's all for now! Uh... I hope it's okay that I'm using real-life places like this...X,P Hope it doesn't take away from the story any...**

**Thanks for reading! Love you all!**


	3. Chapter 3 -- Hell On Earth

**All My Colors**

**Chapter III - Hell On Earth**

Through two chapters, reader, you may have noticed that I seem to be a fairly intelligent person; well, that is true, for the most part at least. Blaze, however, doesn't see me that way. Mainly because she's never seen _this_ side of me... The side that thinks about everything in such detail and turns past experiences into life-long lessons... She might actually like me if she saw me this way. But, the only side she knows is awkward and flawed; it can't seem to function with her being present, and yet it _needs_ her. I don't know why, but I've always been that way around her. I think the term she uses for it is _naïve_. Childish. She probably calls me that three times a day, at least. That should tell ya' a lot about what she thinks of me, and why _we_ can never be. Every time that word escapes her lips, I take it like a scold. I'm nothing more than a disobedient puppy to her, and she's _always_ ready with a spray-bottle of water.

While I've mentioned I would hate to be in Blaze's shoes, there is no denying that she is _very_ good at what she does. She is passionate about it, like I am with art. Even though she's only been doing it for a few years, she's already done multiple front-page articles for the New York Times. The ones above her say they like her 'direct and fiery tone'. Sounds about right. She's talked about how she wants to also start writing novels and maybe even a documentary or something along those lines. That would be cool. But, God knows we wouldn't be able to live if _both_ of us had jobs that only pay off some of the time. Trust me, she never fails to remind me about _that_ aspect of my occupation.

I excuse myself from the room after a game or two of pool to refill my drink. Ah, sweet tea... It's a delicacy in the south. Not so much up here. When you eat out in Spartanburg, if you ask for tea, that's what you get. In New York, they look at you sideways when you say _sweetened_, and bring you several packs of sugar to mix into your _iced_ tea. It's just not the same. That's why I always make my own at home; it tastes better and, hell, it's cheaper. Honestly, I'm not particularly proud of my heritage, but I think we got that one right.

After a while, and a few air hockey tournaments after Tails joined us, I got bored of doing unproductive things. I walk back across my apartment, and into the art room, thinking that I have a pretty nice idea. I take my sketch pad and stool back over to the window, and begin with a long swooping line across the top of the page.

I look down, hearing sirens, to see a black convertible being chased by several police cars. In the backseat, I'm not sure, but I think that looks like several bags of cocaine. The driver is a brown mongoose with dark shades on, speeding through the streets with his middle finger to the sky. Damn, the world's gone to hell. You can't turn on the news channel without hearing something about a rape or homicide or drug heist. If there really is a God, I'm not sure why he hasn't blown this place to pieces yet.

My mom used to tell me that things like this just didn't happen when she was growing up. And, in part, I think that's true. I think things like this happened, but it just wasn't so publicized like it is today. Social media will be the end of the world, and I hope I'm not the only one who knows it. Because of the media today, everything gets covered and shared with the public. Because of that, it gives these insane criminals more ideas. Because of that, the crimes multiply, and the cycle repeats. Sooner or later, there's going to be more crazy assholes than the nut-houses can hold. Or, well... That's my philosophy, at least.

In fact, I think that Blaze is working on a story right now about some mass-murderer guy who was just recently caught in some underground lair of his in the middle of nowhere with several dead bodies, most of them girls, most of them without any clothes on. I don't know why some people are like that... Wanna' go around and kill and abuse everyone they see. Life is too precious to waste, on either end. Seriously, why can't everyone just learn to love each other? Why _can't_ we get along? Is there an unwritten rule somewhere that forbids people to coexist? Holding hands takes a lot less energy than holding a grudge. Or holding a gun, for that matter. I know I sound a lot like Pops right about now, but that's more than okay.

One of my more recent paintings was actually a lot like that... It was a rather large interpretation of the city of New York, all blown-up and 3-D-like. It was full of bright colors and figures hugging one another... And hearts of various sizes scattered all around. Well, basically, the opposite of what this place is _actually_ like. Obviously, there wasn't much of a story to go with it, or even a title, but at the bottom in black writing, I wrote: "Make Love... Not War.". I think I got around three hundred bucks for the piece.

A bunch of people question why someone would pay that much for a painting. Really, it's only for those who can see past the canvas. When you buy a piece of art, you also take home a little piece of the artist's soul. His vision. That makes it worth it.

Looking at my half-covered page now, I start having second thoughts about it. It's well-sketched... But I don't think I could get into it like usual. It's gotta' be something I can think about... Something that has meaning. This doesn't cut it, so I crumple up the paper, and toss it in the trash can as I walk into the living room. That's the good thing about art: you don't have to get it right the first time.

You would think that seeing Blaze sitting on the couch would surprise me, but she does come home fairly early some days. I think that once you finish your assignment, you're done until they give you a new one, or something like that.

"Easy day?" I ask.

She hardly looked up from her book, "No. Just quick."

I've played this game before. She must still be frustrated with me, for whatever reason. I really would like to being up Miss Kay, maybe ask about her, but I'd probably just get rejected. Still, I sit next to her, and attempt conversation.

"How is your mother?"

She glances at me, and closes her novel, turning to face me. "Fine."

Oh, shit... I'm sweating; I feel like I have a lump in my throat and my heart feels like it's practicing for a marathon. I _always_ get this way around her! Just... Why? What is it about her that makes me go to pieces? Why can't I say anything? Finally, I sigh. "Do you wanna' talk about it over dinner? I can make some spaghetti or something."

I can tell she's down. I don't know if she's heard anything from the doctors, but if she has, it wasn't good. She just stares at the floor, taking a long time to answer. She's eating away at herself on the inside... I don't know why she won't express her feelings... Let it all out, you know. She needs someone, but everywhere she looks there are only mirrors. And then there's me... Who _sees_ this, and can't do anything about it. Well, I _can_, but I'm too selfish to try. It pains me just as much as her. I wish she would just...

"I don't really feel like talking." She finally says, "But spaghetti sounds nice." I don't see it, but I know her face is neutral as she stands up, and walks towards the common room.

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**Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed the new chappy!:3**

**Listen, I have a new friend on here!:D Her pen name is SolsticeReid, and she's just now starting out publishing her stories to fanfiction. It'd be really coolio and greatly appreciated if you guys would check her out!;)**

**Thanks for reading! Love you all!**


	4. Chapter 4 -- Don't Go

**All My Colors**

**Chapter IV - Don't Go**

_"So what have you heard?"_

_The purple cat leans back in her chair, and rests her head in her left hand. She concentrates on the railing in front of her for some time, not daring to look at her friend. Finally, she speaks: "She... Doesn't have long..."_

_The two join in silence. There's not much to be said. The bat keeps her eyes on the feline, wanting to feel what she's feeling. Wanting to know what it is like, so she could possibly connect with her. But she can't. She just can't see herself in that position. "I... I'm so sorry, Blaze..." _

_It's nobody's fault. Things like this just happen. But... Why must they hurt so bad? The bat sees the lavender one close her eyes, and attempt to hide her tears in her palm. Both look out to the city. "Have you talked with Silver?" The winged one asks._

_The reply comes after another long pause. "I-I'm not sure I want to..."_

_"Why's that, hon?" _

_The cat's lip quivers, and she takes a deep breath, looking up and now wiping her tears away with both hands. She cannot find an answer. She's not sure there is one._

_The bat looks away again, seeing that there will be no response. "Do you still love him?" Her friend's golden eyes meet the floor, the railing again, and finally hers. Something's in those eyes... Something she's rarely, if ever, seen in them. She just can't tell what it is._

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While the noodles cook, I allow myself to wander over to the doorway, and peer into the common room. Here I find that Blaze and Rouge are sitting out on the small balcony, engaged in a slow conversation. Those two usually do this... Just sit outside and talk. I've always wondered what they talk about. Probably, more often than not, me. I get that feeling, seeing that I probably account for a good amount of Blaze's frustration when she's away from work. I feel like she just wants to get away from me sometimes, and Rouge is her closest outlet. I'm in big trouble when she finds one that's farther away.

Ironically, that's another thing I pray for. That Blaze _will_ get that big break, maybe make some best-selling novel and become rich and famous. She used to say that her dream was to travel the world, see what's out there. There's an adventurous spirit hidden deep down inside her, I know it. And I think that once she gets the chance, she'll dig for it without me. What I mean is, she'll go off and live on her wealth and fame and completely forget about my existence.

You've probably also noticed, reader, that I'm fairly religious. Well... I suppose I am, to an extent. I don't go to church, or read the Bible, or live off scripture. I'm not Catholic, or Baptist, or Lutheran. I just believe that there's a God out there who looks after His children; and when the time is right, we'll all live with Him. No need to complicate things.

Religion is hard to grasp sometimes. It's like a man who has been blind since birth trying to learn about colors. He hears about green, pink, and brown all the time, but when he asks about them, they're impossible to describe. There is no way for the ones who have seen the other side to relay it back to those who haven't. The translation shall forever remain unknown. That is why faith exists.

Faith is a funny thing. We never acknowledge what we believe in on a daily basis until something happens and it actually matters. And then we wonder why we receive nothing in return. That then pushes us away from religion, and only makes it harder to understand. Nowadays, people will sit on the fence about mostly anything, because they fear being wrong. Everyone has to be right.

In the background, I hear a voice from the television as I add a little pepper to the meat sauce. Some documentary about some famous celebrity that just recently committed suicide via drug overdose in her own home. I think police are still investigating the cause of her taking her own life, but the last I heard it was something about her ex-husband not taking her back. Why would someone ever feel the need to stop living? Even if it was for a legitimate reason (anything _other_ than relationship problems...), things always get better. It's not the end of the world unless you make it. That's like all these little kids getting their hands on their parent's guns and shooting themselves because they get bullied at school for being too fat, or ugly, or because something they said or did got leaked out to the Internet. Sure, it will affect you for the time being, but, damn... In twenty years, will it really matter if everyone knew who you had a secret crush on in high school? Or that you were a little on the hefty side? Or that you didn't wear the nicest clothes or put on make-up to go to class? The world is so mean; it makes me very sad to know things like that go on every day, and that suicide is sometimes the easiest option for those kids. A life is just such an amazing thing... And, honestly, there is so much to live for outside of what's in front of you. You just gotta' go find it. Mom always used to tell me: "Silver, life's hard. Get a helmet.". She couldn't have been more right.

Now, Blaze and I sit at the dining table, eating slowly. Like the meal is a chess match and we must plan our moves carefully or face defeat. Every now and then, when I'm sure it's okay, I'll look up at her, and try to read her expression. It's always near impossible to do with Blaze, as she hides her emotions so well. She just sits there, staring through her plate of food, through the table, into some distant universe. Only occasionally bringing her fork to her mouth. Finally, I speak; my voice nervous for some reason. "So... Uh... H-How did the article come out?"

She glances up at me, and returns her gaze to her plate. "I think it's alright. I got on a roll early with it."

There's an awkward silence, but... Wow, she's _actually_ speaking to me. This could be my only chance. I take another bite of spaghetti, and chew slowly, waiting for the right moment. "Blaze..." I say, after a few minutes. "I want to talk..."

"And I _do not_." She replies, with little hesitation, not looking up from her half-eaten food. The response was so unexpected and direct that I can feel my cheeks reddening by the second. I don't know what I'll have to do to get through to her. Maybe I can't. We don't talk for the rest of the meal, until Blaze stands up, and puts on her jacket, heading for the doorway.

"Where are you going?" I ask, probably a little too excitedly.

She doesn't answer until she's halfway out: "The hospital."

The door is almost closed before I can ask, "C-Can I come?"

Blaze stops, and stares into her world of turmoil once more. She grips the handle, not looking back at me. "I'd... Prefer you didn't..." Oh, how I want to just stand up and scream, 'Don't leave! Never leave without me, Blaze! I love you and I want to help!'. But I don't.

And the door is shut. Bam. Just like that. It's that easy. I'm telling ya', one of these days that door's gonna' close behind her and she won't come back. I'll lose her. She'll be gone forever. And where does that leave me? She pays for the majority of the rent... She's probably itching to get me off her shoulders. I know I have to do something to let her know how I feel... But... I just... I... Can't...

Even back a few years ago when Miss Kay was hospitalized, Blaze wouldn't let anyone tag along to see her. I don't know what it is... But I never question it. It's her mother, after all. And, for a while, she was mine as well. But, that's a different story for a different day.

Now I sit, still somewhat in shock from the rejection. After a while, I do let my mind wander... Back to Miss Kay. If this isn't all just a dream, what will people say at her funeral? What would she want them to say? I ponder the matter for some time, pacing the room to keep focus. I really need to focus on other things. These thoughts are grim, and honestly, all of this may not even happen in the near future. I drop the matter in favor of the door knob leading into my room of wonder, where I take a seat and think happier thoughts, staring into the light brown canvas, like an astronomer would the night sky.

* * *

******I hate to say this, y'all, but things are about to slow down tremendously for me. School starts back Monday *tears* and I'm friggin' swamped until December.:'( I'll try my best to keep on continuing my stories, but it will most likely not be at the pace I've been at as of late.X( Sawwy...(T_T) Don't kick my ass!XD**

**Thanks for reading! Love you all!**


	5. Chapter 5 -- Unanswered Cries

**All My Colors**

**Chapter V - Unanswered Cries**

I must admit, I'm very jealous of others' fur. That's always been the one thing I wish I could change about me... Mine isn't bright and excited like Amy's pink, or deep and calm like Blaze's lavender. I'm just simple, plain, bland gray. I hate it. I have no definition, and what I do is what makes me. That's not really a bad thing... But it means I don't really have much of a personality by myself. Sometimes, I just take a minute to look, and see all the colors around me. There's so many out there... And when we all come together, of course, it makes something beautiful. A rainbow. You see very few rainbows these days.

Pops loved rainbows. Our family used to always pack up one week during the summer and drive to Seneca, down to my uncle's lake-house. It was a nice, small trailer on Lake Keowee that always made you feel at home. We had a boardwalk that stretched out to our dock in the water; in the middle of it, there was a sit-down space with a ladder that led up to a higher floor that you could jump off of into the lake. When it rained, Pops and I used to go out there and fish and talk and joke around. We'd stay out there for some time, until the sky cleared, and we saw that rainbow.

The lake-house was a family tradition. My uncle grew up spending summertime there, then my older cousins, then me. But everyone enjoyed themselves. Playing cards was one of the main pastimes while Grandma and Aunt Sissy prepared supper. Those were happy times. Who would've ever thought things could turn upside-down so quickly?

Grandma's death wasn't like Pops's. Nobody saw it coming. Even the doctors were dumbfounded... Just a really bad case of pneumonia is what they called it. It stuck with her for almost a year before she finally gave in. Hey, it happens sometimes. But, it's what tore the family apart. The lake-house was sold because of all the tension, and Pops just couldn't take it anymore. He was weak. He was tired. He was done.

Many times I asked why. Why us? Why _Pops_? The only reply I ever got was chilling silence. But I know the answer now. It's all just part of life. My beliefs contradict one another sometimes. I try to make life out to be some sort of party that everyone should try to enjoy, but then I acknowledge the fact that there's so much bullshit in life that it is physically and mentally _impossible_ to live every day like you're just glad to be here. _Then_ I have the audacity to wonder why someone would want to kill their self.

I look back to the blank canvas. I don't understand it. I'm out of my groove. This period of me searching for inspiration didn't start just this morning, reader. I haven't painted anything in over a month, and Blaze is starting to feel the burden. It's not like I haven't tried... I've done this every day. If I don't come up with something big, I don't know what she'll do. Hell, yes I do...

A painting is a lot like a newborn child. At first, they're pretty frustrating. _Really_ frustrating. But, as it goes on, you begin to see it take form, and then blossom into what you did or didn't want it to be.

You'll also notice that I tend to compare paintings to a lot of different things. I guess that's the beauty of it. Paintings can be _anything_. I just haven't figured out what this one'll be yet. I've actually had an idea for a while now... But... I dunno'. It's kinda' out there, and very different from what I normally do. Plus, it would be _really_ embarrassing if... Oh, _screw it_. I have to paint _something_. I'm not gonna' sell this piece or anything... And I don't care. This will be for my entertainment. I need this.

I grab my sketch pad, and begin outlining a body. Time passes very quickly as I add detail by detail, until it finally looks somewhat like what I intended it to. It takes me a while to do that, even for a sketch. After God knows how long, I sit the sketch on the easel, and in another thirty minutes it is lightly copied onto the canvas. I figure that's good for tonight. After all, I'll probably work on it all day tomorrow. I have no clue what time it is, but it's pitch-black outside, so I assume Blaze is home now. In fact, I think I heard a door close at some point during my drawing, so she's probably asleep. I slip on my pajamas, and ever-so-quietly open and close my door, locking it (Yes, I have a key that unlocks the art room... Hey, I don't trust people!), careful to not make a peep. As I creep past Blaze's door to grab a blanket, I stop when I hear faint sobbing.

There are no words to describe what I feel. Just the sound of her sorrow makes me lose it. Soon, my own cheeks are stained with tears. I look down at the blurry door knob, and touch the bronze surface.

But I can't. This door symbolizes the gateway between possibility and reality, and I don't have the key to get in. Or maybe I do have it and I just don't want to risk it getting scratched up by using it. Oh, God... Blaze... Don't cry...

When I finally lay down, I think back to the sketch. How could I? If she saw that, she'd... Ugh. Now I feel guilty about it. I probably should. I'm a good person, I promise! It's just... I'm a little obsessed with... Well, I should say the dark side of me is obsessed with it.

Yes, I have two sides. Probably more than that. And one of them is obsessed with Blaze in a _completely_ different way than the others. That's a fairly new thing... I haven't always had these kind of thoughts, and, while I'm disgusted with them, I can't seem to stop them from entering my mind. When that happens, my darkest side takes over, and anything can happen. But, I had to draw _something_, right? It's for the sake of my career! At least I'm honest about this kind of stuff.

Now I can't sleep. I tiptoe back over to Blaze's door. My heart turns as she turns, and every second that passes is another opportunity that I had to open that door and comfort her. To whisper into her ear that everything will be alright. To hold her hand and guide her through these times. But no. Just no. Why? Why.

I walk over to the large window behind the dining table. So many lights... From skyscrapers, from taxis in the street, from restaurants and bars still packed with people... It's actually very pretty. They call it 'The City That Never Sleeps'. Looking out tonight, I believe it. Even Blaze and I, from inner turmoil, are kept on the brink of awakeness in the dark. At night, you don't hear the soothing noises of nature like back home in SC. Instead of crickets, you hear the revving of engines. It's city life, all right. I listen carefully, and hear another sob along with a shaken breath that shakes my soul.

Blaze... Don't cry... Please...

* * *

**"Jesus Christ, Dark... _Another_ All My Colors update?!"**

**Yeah... Sorry.:/ I've kinda' lost the art of rotation between my fics... And I'm REALLY sorry about Searching For The Light (( Hmm... Sound familiar?X,3 )), those of you who follow that one... But I've got a few ideas for it if the gods of schoolwork allow me to implement them.;)**

**Really, I probably wouldn't even be updating now if it weren't for the fact that I'm in a VERY good football-related mood... Clemson didn't let me down... For once...X,) And this story is just down right easier to write than the other two. I'm just happy I got to write something this weekend!**

**Thanks for reading! Love you all!**


	6. Chapter 6 -- Satire

**All My Colors**

**Chapter VI - Satire**

I don't mean to direct your attention away from the story, reader, but sitting here this morning in the art room (it is actually quite early; I'm almost positive I'm the only one on the whole floor awake at the moment), I seem to have had an epiphany.

Consider the stereotypical middle-school student hall monitor. I'm talking orange vest, note pad, the whole nine yards. He or she is the one who keeps their fellow peers in line during the transition from class to class. If they notice one fellow, say, Student X, particularly acting up, the hall monitor will do his or her assigned job, and write Student X a note for detention after school. However, Student X had just seen Student Y perform the same exact act during class changes yesterday. What does Student X do? Goes to confront the hall monitor, of course. But, the orange-vested one is obstinate, denying that the situation in question yesterday never occurred. Student X is powerless at that point. He could go to a teacher or principal, but would it really make a difference?

Once again, consider the hall monitor. Hoisted pants, glasses, awkward body and all. And think about what other students think of him (now assuming it is a male), and what they might say about him behind his back. Is self-imposed authority more powerful than the mass? If the students decided to, couldn't they just gang up on him? Would that be right or just? Is there any _real_ authority or intimidation that lies beyond that orange vest?

Does anyone _like_ the hall monitor?

I mean... He's only trying to enforce the rules...

But were all rules meant to be taken so literally? Is such strict punishment really necessary? Personally, I don't believe talking to a buddy in the hallway is hurting anything, and, really, yelling someone's name isn't assault, is it? Is sending a quick text to a friend punishable by law? But the hall monitor continues to write those notes. There is a fine line between overbearing strictness and overwhelming allowance when it comes to rules, and yet they're on opposite ends of the spectrum. At the same time, there's a fine line between chaos and order, and _that_ line is called rules.

But is _order_ necessary for a happy lifestyle? Life is much too short to live staying on the same pre-determined path paved with rules, only listening to those taking said rules to extremes. If Columbus lived by the agreed upon rules or facts, would he have discovered the New World?

While some lines are thin, there is a very wide, but not always obvious, gap between what you _shouldn't_ do and what you just _don't_ do. For instance, it is stated that you _shouldn't_ cross double-yellow lines to pass a car, just like it's said that you _shouldn't_ wear white after Labor Day. Likewise, I think everyone can agree that you _don't_ pass a car in a similar situation when there's on-coming traffic, the same as how you _don't_ wear white to a funeral.

Are the _shouldn't-dos _in those cases hurting anything? And, if so, is it really on the same level as the _don'ts_? No, when laid out like this, it really doesn't take half a brain to realize the difference. So the question remains, why would _anyone_ attempt to take the law, of any sort, into their own hands over such little things? Power is a crazy thing that makes people less animal and more god. Or, at least it does in the minds of those who _have_ power. It takes someone truly wise to not fall victim to the temptations power presents. Because when _you're_ the one giving yourself authority over others, or taking the rules to extremes, how are _you_ any better (or more important, for that matter) than a middle-school hall monitor?

In any event, the answers to my many questions are completely dependent upon you, reader. I just wanted to give ya' something to chew on.

Back to the real world, and continuing from the scene you saw last, I can only say that Blaze obviously had no clue that I was still up at that hour last night. If she had any knowledge that I was, she would've held those tears in until I was unconscious. That's just how she does things. It's crazy how someone could be so intelligent, and yet so ignorant to not see that she's destroying herself. I'm sorry if I should a little blunt this morning, but I'm just tired. Ugh. I really need to work on this painting...

I walk over to my desk, and pour some acrylics onto my pallet. I make sure to add extra red and blue, so I can get the exact shade of purple I need. Some white, some black... I think that's actually about it.

* * *

I have no idea how long it's been. All I know is Blaze was up and about around two hours ago, and she's not even working today. But the good news is that I have a nice base layer on the piece, and that I'm making substantial progress on it. I guess that painting and thinking don't go hand-in-hand... Hell, I don't know what I'd do if I actually _thought_ about what I was painting right now. But now it's on canvas, which is tantamount to set in stone. Might as well take a break. Jesus, my head's throbbing...

The happy '_ting!_' of the toaster greets my eardrums. I see Blaze grab a napkin, and take hold of a chocolate pop-tart, wasting no time biting into it. I let a sheepish grin dominate my appearance as I walk past her over to the couch.

"You were in there for some time..." She finally says, after chewing softly. "New painting?"

A significant amount of red rises to my cheeks. "Uh... Y-Yeah."

Now Blaze is just standing there. I can only see her out of the corner of my eye, but I almost want to say she's on the verge of speaking. That dreaded silence, however, is all that fills the situation. I see her take one last bite of her pastry, and then grab her coat.

"Going somewhere?"

She looks back, over her shoulder. Wow. I just can't believe how stunning she is...

"To get some groceries." Is the reply. "We're out of quite a few things."

As the door shuts, my face drops. It seriously feels like part of me has left, and is now in a different place. One day, I'm gonna' figure out what exactly it is she does that drives me insane...

After a long pause, I turn on the television. The FOX Sports logo immediately catches my eye, and then it flips to a football game. Divisional round of the NFL Playoffs. The Denver Broncos versus the Cincinnati Bengals. I think I remember hearing somewhere back in August that the Broncos were expected to go all the way this year... That's not looking like much of a possibility at the moment, seeing that the Bengals just kicked another field goal to go up by thirty-four points as the game nears halftime.

I've never really understood sports... Why they're such a big deal... Why fans cheer for their team in such a zealous manner. As if they're actually the ones on the field, risking their limbs for a bit of glory. I guess that's why sports in general exist; to give people a feeling of accomplishment, whether they're playing or not.

However, I don't really mind watching football. Or at least now I don't. It kinda' became a habit when in college, watching Sonic out there and all. I enjoyed watching him. He was fast and elusive and exciting, like a loose squirrel running around a room, eleven people attempting to catch him, all failing to even lay a finger on the thing.

One of my better paintings actually came from all of that; it was of Sonic, reaching out behind his back with one hand to grab the football that everyone thought was about to fly past him in the waning seconds of the National Championship game our senior year at Syracuse. They won that game by two points thanks to his touchdown. Many called it the Catch Of The Century. The university wanted to hang the painting up somewhere in the athletic department, so I gave them an enlarged copy. The original is framed in Sonic's bedroom.

I snap back to reality to see the quarterback for the Broncos sling a pass over the middle of the field; the ball gets tipped and then intercepted by a Cincinnati defensive lineman. Nothing is there to stop him from reaching the end zone for a touchdown, likely the first of his career. The Broncos are booed off their home field as the teams make their way to their locker rooms, the halftime score being Denver seven, Cincinnati forty-eight.

That's another thing about these crazed fans. They believe with all their hearts that their team should do better, not taking any sort of common error into account. They want to think the players out there are super heroes; that if they actually do make a mistake, the referees are cheating somehow. Or the team needs to let that particular player go. Seems to me every sport is like that. That's why I tend to just avoid it.

My ear twitches as I hear the excited, surprising sound of a G major chord, followed by a muffled voice from across the hall. Oh, that reminds me, reader! I have to show you something...

* * *

**Hey guys! So I was kinda' in the mood to be a little critical... And I needed some way to move the story along... So there ya' go!:D Eh... I don't really expect that you guys got what exactly it was I was criticizing there... OR DID YOU?! (DUN... DUN... DUUUUUN!) X,D**

**Thanks for reading! Love you all!**


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